


exits and entrances

by skymetaphors



Category: Gintama
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Feels, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skymetaphors/pseuds/skymetaphors
Summary: They ride the subway together, as they have nearly every Friday for the past three years, and sit beside each other.





	exits and entrances

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story has only one setting: the subway. Let's pretend that their destination warrants a long subway ride.
> 
> Also, every time the time shifts from afternoon/evening to morning, assume that it's a couple or several days or maybe even weeks after the previous one, unless otherwise implied or stated.

_spring / 10:00 am_

They ride the subway together, as they have nearly every Friday for the past three years, and sit beside each other. Not quite close, not quite distant. They rarely miss a single week, and some regular commuters have gotten used to the sight. And noise. Always there is noise. After all, they only meet once a week at most, and they have plenty of rudeness and vulgarities stocked up, just for each other.

Today, she is cranky because she didn't get much sleep last night. She complains about the effect it will have on her skin and he tells her he can grant her eternal sleep if she wants. And she'll look like a wrinkled old hag, anyway, no matter what skincare routines she may implement. She stomps on his shoe (he dodges), shrieking that she is at the wonderful, ripe age of eighteen, and he is simply too blind and too stupid to comprehend her beauty.

He tugs on her hair, and with a smirk at odds with the look in his eyes, tells her he can see her just fine.

_/_

_/ 04:00 pm_

They are both exhausted. Even  _this_  is routine. Unleash their insults for the day in the morning, then go home in silence in the afternoon. They maintain the same distance between them, not looking at each other. Instead, they stare at the ceiling. The subway light is cold and stark white on their faces.

Around them, people talk, laugh, sleep, kiss, hold, glare, argue, whisper, live. Other commuters sit on either side of them. They don't scoot; there's enough space anyway.

He asks her where she wants to eat. She's quiet, and for a while, he thinks she has fallen asleep. But then she mentions the sushi place they used to frequent. Back when they were younger. He shrugs and agrees, glancing at her profile. She isn't shocked anymore when they have a conversation that isn't even remotely antagonistic.

She suddenly asks why they stopped going to that place. He says her name, each syllable tired, and they stop talking.

_/_

_/ 11:00 am_

She stayed up late last night again, but this time it's only because she talked his ear off over the phone until it was nearly morning. It's taxing to travel outside the planet every week to hunt some aliens then come back home, but it's worth it. In space, there is excitement and adventure and distractions and all sorts of stories she gets to tell him about when she returns to Earth.

She once asked—in the most tsundere manner possible—if he wanted to come with her, even if it's just once. He refused, saying  _here_ is where he belongs, and he likes listening to her anyway. He didn't  _exactly_  say the last part like that. A threat wherein her mouth is carved into a pisspot should she fail to regale him with her stories was a major part of the discussion.

She usually tells him about her week when he picks her up at the station, but a drug bust coincided with her arrival and he wasn't able to make it. So she unloaded that night.

Now she sits beside him, eyes closed, head drooping almost all the way to her lap. He nurses a can of coffee, occassionally poking her in the cheek to keep her awake. She growls and tries to bite his finger off every time, and he threatens to leave her if she remains asleep by the time they get to their stop. She tells him he wouldn't. He tells her he would very much like to.

Revitalized, she calls him about ten variations of good-for-nothing, twelve adjectives that all mean stupid, and compares him to the genitalia of five different Amanto races.

He stomps on her foot (she dodges), she headbutts him (he dodges), and they do an odd sort of wrestle without getting off their seats, punching whatever they can reach, pinching cheeks and biting hands. For the finishing blow, she decides to grab his crotch and squeeze. He yelps in pain and without thinking, grabs her crotch and squeezes.

They stare at each other. Every single soul within sight stares at them.

They snatch their hands back. Her face is a funny shade of red and she screams the word pervert, nearly shattering his and everyone else's eardrums. He screams pervert right back at her and people are inching away from them. Some, perhaps, are on the verge of calling the police. (It probably won't help if he tells them he  _is_ the police.)

He insists that she started it, she tells him intent is the key in perversion, he says he never intended to grope her because honestly, who would? And now she's mad for an entirely different reason.

They are still yelling at each other when they get off at the next stop to avoid bothering fellow commuters. They walk the rest of the way, fully awake.

_/_

_/ 05:00 pm_

They are back to socially acceptable speaking volume by the time they're on the ride home. The argument was never really settled; it's just that they grow weary more easily these days. They still spar to keep each other on their toes, but they are no longer as destructive, as thoughtless. Like everything else, they are no longer the same.

They are forced to sit closer than they are used to because the place is crammed. She nibbles on her last piece of sukonbu, folding the wrapper until it's smaller than her fingernail, then she unfolds it slowly and restarts the process. He watches the people for lack of anything to do. Today he feels like one of them, any of them, a different one with each passing second. One moment he is a bum stumbling in with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, another he is a businesswoman chattering on her phone, and then another he is a father with a cake box rushing out of the subway.

He looks suddenly at her. She stops what she's doing and looks back at him. They say nothing. After a while, they look away.

He is beside her because there are days when she feels the same way.

_/_

_summer / 09:00 am_

Other people's happiness is electric. The two of them sit there in their usual seats and witness it and it's like they're at a trial to give statements: They were smiling, Your Honor, they held hands, they loved, they lived their lives properly, Your Honor, how dare they, they can go fuck themselves!

He nudges her with a knee. She glances at him and raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth, silence comes out. He exhales loudly, shakes his head, and tells her he didn't think it possible for her to get uglier, but she proves him wrong every day.

She moves just a little closer to him, slowly, deliberately reaching up to touch the top of his head. She says she can feel a balding spot right there, then she drops her hand and moves back to maintain their original distance.

Maybe they can be forgiven, Your Honor.

_/_

_/ 03:00 pm_

There are only a handful of people around, and nobody is sitting beside them. They can lie down if they want to.

They eat their ice cream cones like normal people. Back then, they would have either tried to eat the other's ice cream or raced to see which of them was faster. Now, they no longer see the point.

She gobbles hers up with relish and he has to wipe her cheek with his sleeve. He calls her an idiot, his voice soft. She closes her eyes briefly to memorize the sound, then tells him he can suck himself. He counters that he actually can't.

When he finishes his, she peers at his face, frowning, checking. He assures her he isn't a clumsy boar like her. She leans close and licks his cheek, just because she can, and he tells her her tongue was in the wrong place, meeting her glare head-on, daring her to correct herself, asking her, wanting her, perhaps needing her to.

She has to stand up and pace a little.

_/_

_/ 03:05 pm_

She sits back down. She puts her face close to his. His gaze is steady but he isn't and she knows this.

She backs off. Then she scoots closer to him, their thighs not quite touching. He whispers coward, she turns her head a little but doesn't look directly at him, and she tells him not like this. Not like this. Not when they are like this.

_/_

_/ 10:00 am_

They enter the subway, walking with their arms touching. They sit with the right distance between them, but he keeps looking at her and she is outright staring (glaring) at him, pinching his cheek and tugging at it.

She was off-planet for much longer than usual, and they weren't able to see each other when she arrived. Instead, they met up at the subway station.

He is often busy these days. Part of him resents it, because it's time he wants to spend with her. He said sorry last night over the phone, and with it was the weight of what they have become. He didn't apologize this easily before. She held her phone away from her mouth and mumbled that she missed him, and of course he didn't hear it so she ended up shouting it to her phone anyway.

Now he grabs her hand (so small when he holds it like this) to stop her from peeling his skin off his skull. He doesn't let go of her. She asks him what he's doing and he kisses the corner of her lips.

Flustered, she still manages to punch him in the gut (he isn't able to dodge that one; maybe he, too, is blushing) and screams sexual harassment. Heads turn. He tells her she should be on her knees thanking him and begging for more because no one else is willing to be in such close proximity to a stinky pig like her.

They do that weird sideways wrestle again, and for the finishing blow, she decides to yell coward. He stops and stares at her. Asks her what she wants him to do. She tells him she wants him to roll over and die and he kisses her on the mouth.

When he pulls away, her eyes are still closed. She reaches for him, hands trembling, and he takes them in his own, and her eyes flutter open, and she repeats what she shouted to him last night, only quieter, and he says it back to her, then calls her cowtits so they won't be too embarrassed.

Happiness is electric.

_/_

_autumn / 09:30 am_

A sack of pork buns sits beside her. She devours them, telling him about her week between bites. They didn't see each other at the station again, and there are dark bags under his eyes. She mentions some alien monster whose reproductive organs reminded her of his face. His head droops and he jerks upright, blinking. He asks her if she said something. She shakes her head slowly, watching him. She offers him a pork bun and he refuses, speaking an entire sentence with the word 'bun' in it and  _no vulgar insult_.

She consumes the rest of her food in silence, frowning at his hunched form. When he continues to be in denial that he is, in fact, sleepy, she moves his head to her shoulder. He sags against her. It doesn't take him long to start snoring.

It's rare for him to have moments like this, let alone ones she can catch. She smiles a little, and with well-practiced gentleness, rests her head against his.

_/_

_/ 04:30 pm_

Now they are both tired and drowsy. Her cheek lands on the slant of his shoulder and he puts an arm around her, burying his nose in her hair. She says his name like she's about to tell him something, but ends up falling asleep before she can talk.

At their stop, he kisses her awake then proceeds to yank at her cheeks so hard she squeals like the pig that she is.

Change has always come slowly to them.

_/_

_/ 11:30 am_

She tells him she's cold and he winds his scarf around both of their necks, demanding that she bring her own next time. She reprimands him for not being honored to share a scarf with someone as great as her, he tries to strangle her with said scarf, she rips it apart whilst screaming obscenities, he smashes his forehead into her face, yelling that it was his favorite scarf, and she kicks him.

They scuffle for a long time, and everyone foolish enough to sit beside them swiftly vacates the area.

After another draw, she ends up snuggling against his side, her head nestled in the curve between his neck and his shoulder. She complains about his smelly armpit and within the same breath, declares that she wants to hold his hand.

He graciously does as she requests. In another life, they will not need this much holding. It's not like them to turn touch into their gravity.

But it's going to be one of those days, and they need this.

They will need this again.

_/_

_/ 06:30 pm_

When the day crosses into dusk, artificial light seems twice as bright. They both look pale and washed-out, like they have been wrung dry.

They wear new scarves, bought just before they took the subway. She insisted on choosing for him, so he chose for her. He thinks the pink, bunny-patterned scarf actually kind of accents his eyes, and she finds the doodles of various eyes on her red scarf sort of endearing.

This day is a particularly difficult one for no reason. Do they think it would be better if they know why? Not at all. They are letting it sneak up on them, letting it sink in.

He looks ahead. Today, he feels like he is the subway handles, the poles, the seats, the floor, the windows, the window frames. All of them, any of them, a different one for each passing second. He can feel his own brittleness in the way he scatters himself.

He looks at her as if this will save him. She bumps her nose against his. When he kisses her, he tastes saltwater.

_/_

_winter / 07:00 am_

She is somewhere in space, maybe still killing monsters, maybe already on her way back to Earth. It doesn't matter.

He sits on his own, his elbows perched on his knees, gloved hands clasped together, head bowed. Sometimes these things have to be done alone.

The subway is nearly empty. There's an old man dozing off in a corner, a boy with a straight back standing off to the side, and a woman reading at the far end of the seat.

The doors hiss open, and someone enters. They sit directly opposite him and he looks up.

She looks back at him.

Neither of them seem surprised.

She notes that it's not Friday and he congratulates her on finally learning the days of the week. And does the subway look like a damn spaceship to her? She is not supposed to be here.

She tells him she finished early. She planned to go alone this time, too, what a coincidence, and then she asks him if he does this often without her. Maybe. She asks if he at least buys enough flowers and incense for Gin-chan and Shinpachi, in addition to the Mayora and the Gorilla. Besides the mayonnaise and tamagoyaki, does he also bring strawberry milk? And those weird-tasting Otsuu potato chips?

He knows she already knows the answer to all that, but he still says yes. Yes, he does. Every time.

_/_

_/ 05:00 pm_

For the millionth time, they remember that they are heading back to empty houses. She had moved far from her previous home, her losses still unpacked on its floor, and now she is alone. And his place has always been his, no one else's, he has liked it that way his entire life, but he had also been used to the knowledge that  _they_  were somewhere nearby, close enough to hear, to talk to, to disturb and shoot and hurt and know.

Lonely is in the sight of the many people around them. These strangers are all closer to one another than they both are to anyone in the entire world.

They look at each other as they realize this.

Like everyone else, they kiss because it's unbearably cold. When the people around them throw disgusted looks as she throws her legs across his lap and pulls him to her by the collar, he smirks, cradling her chin, and angles her face for better access to her mouth. He strokes her thigh, slips his hand under layers of clothing, and rakes his fingers across bare skin. She makes a sound that should only be heard in the bedroom and he gulps it down, it tastes like her, like her, her nails leave marks on the back of his neck, and she bites his lower lip, he tastes his own blood, he thinks of her red-stained teeth and he groans as he laps it all up, all of her up. When they reach home (His or hers? Who cares?) he will devour her, and she him, because it is cold, they are hungry, and even after all these years, they are still not used to eating alone.

_/_

_/ 08:00 am_

They enter the subway and take their usual seats, leaning against each other. He tells her to move away because she smells like goat piss. She presses herself even closer to him and continues the story she didn't finish telling him last night because she fell asleep midway through. He didn't end the call immediately when he realized this, only listened closely to her breathing.

When she's done with her story, she immediately demands they eat breakfast, she hasn't had any yet, who the hell is up at this time of the day? He asks where she wants to eat, and she whines that it's been a while since she ate eggs on rice.

They fall silent.

She used to eat eggs on rice every day, every meal with Gin-chan, and she has avoided them for the same reason she visits separately from the others, for the same reason she visits nearly every week even though she is sure Gin-chan and Shinpachi would disapprove: She can't quite forgive herself yet. She knows it is not her fault, that every life-risking decision they make is theirs, and that's what makes the Yorozuya  _the_ Yorozuya. But she still feels like she owes them, even though Gin-chan owes her every yen he spends on pachinko and parfaits instead of her and Shinpachi's salaries.  _Spent_. He spent.

Now she has to stop herself from crying, because her sadist has  _that_ look on his face, the one he wears when he knows she's going to cry.

He tells her that if she cries, they will get off at the next stop and eat at the nearest restaurant. When she's ready, he'll eat as many bowls of egg-topped rice with her as she wants.

She does end up crying. And that's exactly what they do.

_/_

_/ 11:00 am_

Upon an unspoken agreement, they head straight home after eating. Maybe they'll go to that sushi place they, along with Hijikata-san, Kondo-san, the boss and the glasses, frequented because they often forced Hijikata-san to pay for all of it. Maybe he'll be able to finish an entire meal there before he chokes on their absence. Maybe it's just Hijikata-san's ghost strangling him. Maybe the tension headaches are actually just Kondo-san smacking him on the head.

It does make him feel better to think that, for the same reason he visits separately from the others, for the same reason he visits every week even though he is sure they would disapprove: He can't quite forgive himself yet. He knows it is his fault they are dead. Sure, it is part of the Shinsengumi's duties to risk their lives, but still. If he had been better. Faster. Stronger. If he had been there in the first place. If he had only found out earlier. If they had not been them and he had not been him. Useless wishes.

And now he has just skipped his weekly visit to be with her. But is it wrong to live for the living?

He closes his eyes, rests his cheek on the top of her head. Her knuckles trace his jaw with well-practiced gentleness and she tells him she's going to eat dinner at his place so he'd better cook a feast for her.

He opens his eyes and offers to roast her over a spit. She snorts in derision and dares him to try and catch her, hooking her arm around his and burrowing closer to him.

Maybe they haven't been doing this right. They have retreated from the worlds they had in an attempt to rebuild something else, something completely separate from the people they were, the people who lost. Maybe there are things they can have, people they can keep.

He weaves his fingers through hers, says her name out loud for no particular reason. She says his, just a little louder, because she can.

For now, they are all they have.

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm not sure if I portrayed their grief accurately. Or properly. I'm bad at feelings, dammit. Let me know what you guys think.


End file.
